THE    ANGEL    OF 
LONESOME    HILL 

Story  of   a   President 


FREDERICK  LANDIS 


IN    SIMILAR   FORM 

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THE  ANGEL  OF  LONESOME  HILL 


Those  who  passed  by  night  were  grateful  for  the  lamp 


THE  ANGEL  OF 
LONESOME  HILL 

A  STORY  OF  A  PRESIDENT 


BY 
Frederick    Landis 

Author  of  "The  Glory  of  His  Country" 


AMERICAN  BOOKSELLERS  ASSOCIATION  BANQUET 
Hotel  Astor,  May  if,  rgro 


Compliments  of  the  Publishers 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 

1910 


Copyright,  1910,  by  Charles  Scnbner's  Sons 


Published  April,  1910 


THE    ANGEL 
OF    LONESOME    HILL 

IT  was  a  handful  of  people  in  the 
country — a  simple-hearted  hand- 
ful.    There  was   no   railroad — 
only  a  stage  which  creaked  through 
the   gullies  and  was  late.     Once  it 
had  a  hot-box,  and  the  place  drifted 
through  space,  a  vagrant  atom. 

Time  swung  on  a  lazy  hinge. 
Children  came ;  young  folks  married ; 
old  ones  died;  Indian  Creek  over- 
flowed the  bottom-land ;  crops  failed ; 
one  by  one  the  stage  bore  boys  and 
girls  away  to  seek  their  fortunes  in 
the  far-off  world;  at  long  intervals 
some  tragedy  streaked  the  yellow 
clay  monotony  with  red;  January 
[1] 


2023995 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

blew  petals  from  her  silver  garden; 
April  poured  her  vase  of  life;  Au- 
gust crawled  her  snail  length;  years 
passed,  leaving  rusty  streaks  back  to 
a  dull  horizon. 

The  sky  seemed  higher  than  any- 
where else;  clouds  hurried  over  this 
place  called  "Cold  Friday." 

A  mile  to  the  east  was  "  Lonesome 
Hill."  Indians  once  built  signal 
fires  upon  it,  and  in  this  later  time 
travellers  alighted  as  their  horses 
struggled  up  the  steep  approach.  At 
the  top  was  a  cabin;  it  was  white- 
washed, and  so  were  the  apple-trees 
round  it.  A  gourd  vine  clung  to  its 
chimney;  pigeons  fluttered  upon  its 
shingles,  and  June  flung  a  crimson 
rose  mantle  over  its  side  and  half- 
way up  the  roof. 

One  wished  to  stop  and  rest  be- 
[*] 


LONESOME  HILL 

neath    its    weeping    willow    by    the 
white  stone  milk  house. 

Those  who  passed  by  day  were  ac- 
customed to  a  woman's  face  at  the 
window — a  calm  face  which  looked 
on  life  as  evening  looks  on  day — such 
a  face  as  one  might  use  to  decorate  a 
fancy  of  the  old  frontier.  Those 
who  passed  by  night  were  grateful  for 
the  lamp  which  protested  against 
Nature's  apparent  consecration  of  the 
place  to  solitude. 

This  home  held  aloof  from  "  Cold 
Friday";  many  times  Curiosity  went 
in,  but  Conjecture  alone  came  out, 
for  through  the  years  the  man  and 
woman  of  this  cabin  merely  said, 
4 '  We  came  from  back  yonder."  No- 
body knew  where  "yonder"  was. 

But  the  law  of  compensation  was 
in  force — even  in  "Cold  Friday." 

[3] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

With  acquaintanceships  as  with 
books,  the  ecstasy  of  cutting  leaves 
is  not  always  sustained  in  the  read- 
ing, and  the  silence  of  this  man  and 
woman  was  the  life  of  village  wonder. 

It  gave  "Friday's"  chimney  talk 
a  spice  it  otherwise  had  never  known ; 
the  back  log  seldom  crumbled  into 
ashes  till  the  bones  of  these  cabin 
dwellers  lay  bleaching  on  the  plains 
of  "Perhaps." 

John  Dale  was  seventy-five  years 
or  more,  but  worked  his  niggard  hill- 
side all  the  day,  and  seldom  came  to 
town.  His  aged  wife  was  kind;  the 
flowers  of  her  life  she  gave  away,  but 
none  could  glance  upon  the  garden. 
She  seemed  to  know  when  neighbors 
were  ill ;  hers  was  the  dignity  of  being 
indispensable.  Many  the  mother  of 
that  region  who,  standing  beneath 
[4] 


LONESOME  HILL 

some  cloud,  thanked  God  as  this 
slender,  white-haired  soul  with  star 
shine  in  her  face,  hurried  over  the 
fields  with  an  old  volume  pasted  full 
of  quaint  remedies. 

She  made  a  call  of  another  kind — 
just  once — when  the  "Hitchenses" 
brought  the  first  organ  to  "Cold 
Friday." 

She  remained  only  long  enough  to 
go  straight  to  the  cabinet,  which  the 
assembled  neighbors  regarded  with 
distant  awe,  and  play  several  pieces 
"  without  the  book."  On  her  leaving 
with  the  same  quiet  indifference,  Mrs. 
Ephraim  Fivecoats  peered  owlishly 
toward  Mrs.  Rome  Lukens  and  ren- 
dered the  following  upon  her  favorite 
instrument : 

"Well!    if  that  woman  ever  gits 
the  fever  an*  gits  deliriums,  I  want 
[5] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

to  be  round,  handy  like.  I'll  swan 
there'll  be  more  interestin'  things 
told  than  we've  heerd  in  our  born 
days — that  woman  is  allus  thinkin'!" 

In  this  final  respect,  the  judgment 
of  the  Lady  of  the  House  of  Five- 
coats  was  sound. 

How  gallant  the  mind  is!  If  the 
past  be  sad,  it  mingles  with  Diver- 
sion's multitude  till  Sadness  is  lost; 
if  the  present  be  unhappy,  it  has  a 
magic  thrift  of  joys,  and  Unhappi- 
ness  is  hushed  by  Memory's  laughter; 
if  both  past  and  present  have  a  grief, 
it  seeks  amid  its  scanty  store  for  some 
event,  for  instance,  whose  recur- 
rence brings  some  brightness;  to 
greet  this  it  sends  affectionate  antici- 
pations— and  were  its  quiver  empty, 
it  would  battle  still  some  way! 

So  the  wife  of  Dale  looked  for- 

[6] 


LONESOME  HILL 

ward  to  Doctor  Johnston's  visits,  yet 
there  were  so  many  doors  between 
her  silence  and  the  world,  she  did 
not  turn  as  he  entered  one  eventful 
day. 

Doctors  are  Nature's  confessors, 
and  down  the  memory  of  this  one 
wandered  a  camel  of  sympathy  upon 
which  the  sick  had  heaped  their  secret 
woes  for  years,  though  one  added 
naught  to  the  burden. 

It  was  the  tale  he  wished  to  hear, 
and  when  some  fugitive  phrase  prom- 
ised revelation,  he  folded  the  powders 
slowly;  but  when  it  ended  in  a  sigh, 
he  strapped  up  bottles  and  expecta- 
tions and  went  away,  reflecting  how 
poor  the  world  where  one  might  hear 
all  things  save  those  which  interested. 

But  Time  is  a  patient  locksmith  to 
whom  all  doors  swing  open. 

[7] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

"I  always  sit  by  this  window,"  she 
began  as  he  removed  the  fever  ther- 
mometer; "I've  looked  so  long,  I 
see  nothing  in  a  way — and  at  night 
I  always  put  the  light  here.  If  he 
should  come  in  the  dark  I  want  him 
to  see — here  is  a  letter." 

The  Doctor  read  and  returned  it 
with  a  look  of  infinite  pity. 

"I  had  a  dream  last  night;  I  may 
be  superstitious  or  it  may  be  the  fever 
— but  it  was  so  real.  I  saw  it  all;  it 
was  just  like  my  prayer.  I  believe 
in  God,  you  know."  She  smiled  in 
half  reproach.  "Yes,  in  spite  of  all. 

"In  that  dream  something  touched 
my  hand  and  a  voice  whispered  the 
word,  'Now.'  Oh,  how  anxious  it 
was!  I  awoke,  sitting  up;  the  lamp 
had  gone  out,  yet  it  was  not  empty — 
and  there  was  no  wind." 
[8] 


LONESOME  HILL 

John  Dale  stumbled  into  the  room, 
his  arms  full  of  wood,  and  an  old  dog, 
lying  before  the  fireplace,  thumped 
his  tail  against  the  floor  with  dimin- 
ishing vigor. 

She  arose.  "I'll  get  you  a  bite  to 
eat,  Doctor." 

"Never  mind!  I  must  be  going." 
He  made  a  sign  to  Dale,  who  fol- 
lowed to  the  gate. 

"John,  I've  been  calling  here  a 
long  time 

"I  know  I  ought  to  pay  some- 
thin',"  Dale  started  to  say. 

"It  isn't  that — I've  just  diagnosed 
the  case;  only  one  man  can  cure  it." 

"Would  he— on  credit?"  Dale 
anxiously  inquired. 

"He  never  charges."  Johnston 
smiled  sorrowfully  at  the  old  man's 
despair. 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

"Who  is  he?" 

"The  President;  the  President  of 
the  United  States,"  he  added  as 
Dale's  eyes  filled  with  questions. 
"I  came  out  of  college  a  sceptic, 
John,  and  I'd  be  an  infidel  out- 
right but  for  that  wife  of  yours — 
she's  nearer  the  sky,  somehow,  than 
any  other  mortal  I've  seen.  I  don't 
believe  in  anything,  of  course — but 
that  dream — if  I  were  you  I'd  trust 
it— I'd  follow  where  it  led." 

With  his  foot  on  the  hub,  the 
farmer  slowly  whetted  his  knife  on 
his  boot.  "I'll  go  with  you,  Doctor." 

"I  called  at  the  office,  but  it  was 
locked,  and  so  I'm  here,"  apologized 
Dale  as  Judge  Long  opened  the  door 
of  his  old-fashioned  stone  house  in 
Point  Elizabeth,  the  county  seat. 

[10] 


LONESOME  HILL 

"Glad  to  see  you — had  your  sup- 
per?" 

Hearing  voices  in  the  dining- 
room,  he  answered  in  the  affirm- 
ative. 

"Then  have  a  cigar  and  wait  in 
the  library;  the  folks  are  having  a 
little  company." 

The  old  man  surveyed  the  room; 
the  books  alone  were  worth  more  than 
his  earthly  possessions.  From  a  desk 
loomed  a  bust  of  Webster.  Shadows 
seemed  to  leap  from  it;  the  sombre 
lips  bespoke  the  futility  of  striving 
against  stern  realities. 

There  was  gayety  in  the  dining- 
room;  Judge  Long  was  a  fountain  of 
mirth,  a  favorite  at  taverns,  while 
riding  the  circuit — before  juries — 
wherever  people  gathered. 

A  gale  of  laughter  greeted  his  last 
[11] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

anecdote  and  the  diners  protested  as 
he  arose. 

Dale  told  his  story  excitedly,  and 
at  the  conclusion  Judge  Long  slowly 
brushed  away  the  tobacco  smoke. 

"I'm  sorry,  John,  but  we  did  all 
we  could  last  month — and  we  failed ; 
there's  just  one  thing  to  do — face  the 
matter.  It's  hard,  but  this  wrorld  is 
chiefly  water,  and  what  isn't  water  is 
largely  rock — it's  for  fish  and  fossils, 
I  suppose." 

"But  we  will  win  now!"  The  old 
man's  hand  fell  with  decision. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?" 

"Mother  had  another  dream  last 
night." 

"But,  you  know,  she  had  one  a 
month  ago,"  quietly  protested  Long. 

"  Yes — and  it  came  true — we  didn't 
do  our  part  just  right.  We  can't  fail 

[12] 


LONESOME  HILL 

this  time;    there  must  be  a  day  of 
justice!'* 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  John,  this  game 
of  life  is  strange;  we  bring  nothing 
with  us,  so  how  can  we  lose?  We 
take  nothing  away,  so  how  can  we 
win  ?  We  think;  we  plan;  we  stack 
these  plans  with  precision,  but  Chance 
always  sits  at  our  right,  waiting  to 
cut  the  cards.  You  speak  of  *  justice.' 
It's  a  myth.  The  statue  above  the 
court-house  stands  first  on  one  foot, 
then  on  the  other,  tired  of  waiting, 
tired  of  the  sharp  rocks  of  technical- 
ity, tired  of  the  pompous  farce.  Why, 
Dale,"  he  waved  a  hand  toward  an 
opposite  corner,  "  if  old  Daniel  Web- 
ster were  here  he  couldn't  do  any- 
thing!" 

When  an  American  lawyer  cites 
that  mighty  shade  it  is  conclusive,  but 

[13] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

the  effect  was  lost  on  Dale.  He  was 
not  a  lawyer,  neither  had  he  read  the 
"Dartmouth  College  Case"  nor  the 
"  Reply  to  Hayne."  In  fact  his  rela- 
tions with  the  "Sage  of  Marshfield" 
were  so  formal  he  believed  his  fame 
to  rest  chiefly  on  having  left  behind  a 
multitude  of  busts.  Besides,  he  was 
impatient;  the  Judge's  peroration 
having  lifted  his  head  so  suddenly 
that  cigar  ashes  fell  upon  the  deep 
rug  at  his  feet. 

"You  won't  go  again,  Judge?" 
He  leaned  forward  perplexed. 

"It's  no  use." 

"Well,  mebbe  you  can't  do  any- 
thing— mebbe  Dan'l  Webster  couldn't 
— but  John  Dale  can!" 

Long  arose,  astonished.  "How 
foolish!  Reason  for  a  moment — any 
presentation  of  this  matter  calls  for 

[14] 


LONESOME  HILL 

the  highest  ability ;  it  involves  sifting 
of  evidence;  symmetry  of  arrange- 
ment; cohesiveness  of  method,  logic 
of  argument,  persuasiveness  of  ad- 
vocacy, subtleties  of  acumen,  charms 
of  eloquence — all  the  elements  of 
the  greatest  profession  among  men!" 

Dale  leaned  heavily  against  the  ta- 
ble, his  eyes  following  the  Judge  as  he 
walked  back  and  forth. 

"Well,  I've  got  'em— I  can't  call 
'em  by  name,  but  I've  got  the  whole 
damned  list — and  I'm  goin'!" 

Long  stood  at  bay,  his  hand  on  the 
door,  his  face  glowing  writh  anima- 
tion. 

"Dale,  you're  old  enough  to  be  my 
father,  but  you  shall  listen.  You'd 
fail  before  a  justice  of  the  peace,  and 
before  the  President  of  the  United 
States — it's  absurd.  You'd  go  down 

[15] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

there,  get  mad,  probably  be  arrested 
and  kill  any  hope  we  might  have; 
why,  you're  guilty  of  contempt  of 
court  right  now.  I  had  a  strong  in- 
fluence, yet  I  failed." 

The  old  farmer  of  "Lonesome 
Hill"  would  listen  no  more. 

"  Then  wait,  John.  This  letter  may 
at  least  save  you  from  jail — and  you 
haven't  any  money;  will  this  do?" 

"It's  more  than  I  need,  Judge." 

"No,  keep  it  all — and  keep  your 
temper  too." 

As  the  Judge  stood  in  the  doorway, 
watching  the  venerable  figure  disap- 
pear in  the  drizzling  night,  a  young 
woman  from  the  dining-room  stole 
to  his  side  and  heard  him  muse: 
"After  all,  who  knows?  A  Briton 
clad  in  skins  once  humbled  a  Roman 
emperor." 

[16] 


LONESOME  HILL 
"Is  he  in  trouble?"  she  asked. 
"  Yes,  great  trouble,  and  it  isn't  his 
fault.     Fate's  a  poor  shot.     She  never 
strikes   one   who   is   guilty    without 
wounding  two  who  are  innocent." 

Dale  was  an  admirable  volunteer 
and  strangely  resourceful;  he  had 
something  more  than  courage. 

The  train  did  not  leave  for  two 
hours.  He  sat  in  the  station  till  the 
clatter  of  the  telegraph  drove  him 
out,  when  he  walked  toward  the 
yards  with  their  colored  lights,  and 
through  his  brain  raced  Specula- 
tion's myriad  fiends,  all  brandishing 
lanterns  like  those  before  him.  When, 
at  last,  the  train  did  start,  it  seemed 
to  roll  slowly,  though  it  could  suffer 
delay  and  reach  the  Capital  by  day- 
break. 

[17] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

He  read  the  letter  of  introduction 
several  times,  and  wondered  what 
kind  of  man  the  President  was;  he 
thought  of  what  he  would  say — and 
how  it  would  end. 

At  intervals  a  ghost  would  extend 
a  long,  bony  hand  and  wring  drops 
of  blood  from  his  heart ;  at  such  times 
the  President  was  hostile — the  trip 
very  foolish — he  regretted  his  anger 
at  Judge  Long's  house;  and  once, 
had  the  engine  been  a  horse,  he  might 
have  turned  back.  At  other  times 
gleams  of  victory  came  from  some- 
where and  yet  from  nowhere,  and 
routed  the  gypsies  from  his  brain, 
and  the  President  stood  before  him, 
a  sympathetic  gentleman.  Once  he 
knew  it,  and  through  excess  of  spirits 
walked  up  and  down  the  aisle,  study- 
ing the  sleeping  passengers;  for  John 

[18] 


LONESOME  HILL 

Dale  travelled   in  a   common  "day 
coach." 

At  last  he  yielded  to  fatigue,  and 
far  off  on  the  horizon  of  consciousness 
dimly  flashed  the  duel  of  his  hopes 
and  fears.  Rest  was  impossible,  and 
after  a  long  time  the  dawn  drifted  be- 
tween his  half-closed  lids;  a  glorious 
dome  floated  out  of  the  sky  and  the 
porter  shouted,  "All  out  for  Wash- 
ington!" 

The  cabmen  who  besieged  the  well- 
dressed  passengers  paid  scant  homage 
to  the  old  man,  who  walked  uncer- 
tainly out  of  the  smoky  shed  and  stood 
for  a  moment  in  Pennsylvania  Ave- 
nue— on  one  hand  the  Capitol,  on 
the  other  the  Treasury  and  White 
House.  A  great  clock  above  him 
struck  the  hour  of  six;  he  hesitated, 
then  went  toward  the  scene  of  conflict. 

[19] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

The  waking  traffic,  the  great  build- 
ings, the  pulse  of  this  strange  life 
filled  him  with  depression.  He  came 
to  a  beautiful  park  and  gazed  upon 
Lafayette  and  Rochambeau,  then  the 
equestrian  statue  of  Jackson.  As  he 
sat  facing  the  snow-white  building 
with  columned  portico,  the  magnolia 
blossoms  were  as  incense.  Then  he 
could  wait  no  longer  and  crossed  to 
the  President's  office.  A  policeman 
stopped  him  at  the  steps.  He  ex- 
plained that  he  had  a  letter  from 
Judge  Long.  What!  Did  this  po- 
liceman not  know  Judge  Long  ? 

He  sat  under  a  tree,  and  the  police- 
man walked  a  few  paces  away  to  turn 
anon  and  survey  the  waiting  pilgrim. 
When  the  doors  opened  he  entered. 
The  President  would  not  come  for 
another  hour;  he  would  be  busy — 

[20] 


LONESOME  HILL 

possibly  he  might  see  him  by  noon — 
provided  he  had  credentials. 

With  a  sigh  he  sank  into  a  chair 
and  was  soon  asleep. 

"Come — this  is  no  cheap  lodging 
house!"  The  greeting  was  shaken 
into  him  by  a  clerk  with  hair  parted 
in  the  middle,  who  disdainfully  sur- 
veyed the  sleeper's  attire. 

He  who  has  much  on  his  mind  little 
cares  what  he  has  on  his  back,  and 
when  the  youth  exploded,  "Who  are 
you?"  the  old  fellow's  self-reliance 
came  forth. 

Leading  the  way  to  the  door  Dale 
pointed  a  trembling  finger.  "See 
that  buildin',  'Bub' — and  that  one 
yonder,  and  that  patch  over  there 
with  Andy  Jackson  in  it?  Well,  I'm 
one  of  the  folks  that  made  it  all — 
and  paid  for  it;  and  you're  one  of 

[21] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

my  hired  hands.  I've  got  to  keep 
so  many  of  you  down  here  I  can't 
afford  one  on  the  farm.  I  want  to 
see  the  President — give  him  this  let- 
ter— it's  from  Judge  Sylvester  Long, 
of  Point  Elizabeth!" 

The  youth  vanished  and  Dale  re- 
sumed his  chair. 

He  was  looking  across  the  lawn 
when  a  sudden  alertness  came  into 
the  scene;  the  silk-hatted  line  of  call- 
ers stepped  aside;  those  who  were 
seated  arose;  newspaper  correspond- 
ents turned  with  vigilant  ears.  A 
nervous  voice  inquired,  "Where  is 
Mr.  John  Dale?" 

The  President  stood  before  him, 
dressed  in  white  flannel,  then  smil- 
ingly grasped  his  hand  with  a  blast  of 
welcome:  "I'm  delighted  to  meet 
the  friend  of  Judge  Long!"  Taking 

[22] 


LONESOME  HILL 

his  arm  the  Executive  escorted  him 
through  the  Cabinet  Room  thronged 
with  Senators,  Representatives,  and 
tourists.  They  entered  the  private 
office.  "Take  the  sofa,  Mr.  Dale- 
it's  the  easiest  thing  in  the  place.  I 
hope  your  business  is  such  that  you 
can  excuse  me  for  a  little  while." 

A  smile  came  over  Dale's  white 
face.  Could  the  poorest  farmer  of 
the  "Cold  Friday"  region  wait  for 
the  most  powerful  character  in  the 
world  ?  Nor  was  the  old  man  in  the 
linen  duster  the  only  one  who  smiled. 
A  member  of  the  Russian  Embassy 
turned  to  his  companion — a  dis- 
tinguished visitor  from  the  Court  of 
St.  Petersburg:  "  What  would  a  peas- 
ant say  to  the  Czar  ?" 

The  President  now  entered  the 
Cabinet  Room,  shaking  hands  with 

[23] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

the  many,  guiding  a  few  into  his  pri- 
vate office.  Dale  listened ;  now  it  was 
an  introduction  and  a  message  to  an 
old  friend  in  the  West.  Then  a  de- 
cisive "No"  dashed  some  hope  of 
patronage;  again,  it  was  a  discussion 
of  poetry,  aerial  navigation,  or  the 
relics  of  the  Aztecs.  It  was  a  long 
stride  from  "Lonesome  Hill,"  and 
for  the  time  Dale  was  novelty's  cap- 
tive. He  glanced  round  the  room. 
It  was  not  as  fine  as  the  directors' 
office  of  the  Point  Elizabeth  Bank! 
Above  the  mantel — the  place  of  honor 
— was  the  painting  of  a  martyr.  He 
wondered  whether  another  stroke  of 
the  brush  would  have  brought  a  smile 
to  the  face,  or  an  expression  of  sad- 
ness. The  hands  were  very  large — 
they  had  once  broken  iron  bands. 
In  one  corner  was  a  shot-gun; 

[24] 


LONESOME  HILL 

tennis  rackets  in  another;  on  a  chair 
were  snow-shoes  and  on  the  desk  a 
sheaf  of  roses. 

Those  whom  the  President  had 
sifted  into  his  office  from  the  crowd 
outside  engaged  in  conversation.  A 
Senator  discussed  the  ball  game  with 
a  Supreme  Court  Justice;  a  General 
advised  an  Author  to  try  deep  breath- 
ing. 

The  President  returned  more  ani- 
mated than  before.  He  placed  a 
hand  on  Dale's  shoulder:  "Be  com- 
fortable— and  stay  for  lunch;  no- 
body but  us." 

The  crowd  paid  sudden  respect  to 
the  homespun  citizen  of  an  older  day, 
and  a  great  happiness  came  into  his 
heart — it  was  like  the  unfolding  of  one 
of  the  roses.  Not  that  he  was  to  lunch 
with  the  President,  though  Dale's 

[25] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

was  the  village  estimate  of  human 
greatness.  A  vaster  issue  was  before 
him,  and  this  was  a  token  of  success 
— a  success  which  would  bind  up  his 
remaining  years  with  peace,  and  give 
glorious  recompense  to  the  compan- 
ion of  his  few  joys  and  many  griefs. 

The  President  hurriedly  signed  his 
name  to  parchments. 

"I'm  making  a  few  postmasters." 
He  smiled  toward  the  sofa.  "It's  no 
trouble  here — that's  all  at  the  other 
end  of  the  line." 

Without  stopping  the  pen,  he  dis- 
cussed matters  with  one  statesman 
after  another,  his  lips  snapping  with 
metallic  positiveness. 

A  member  of  the  Senate  Commit- 
tee on  Foreign  Relations  protested 
against  the  course  pursued  in  Santo 
Domingo. 

[26] 


LONESOME  HILL 

"If  I  were  making  a  world,  Sena- 
tor, I'd  try  to  get  along  without  put- 
ting in  any  Santo  Domingos,  but  as 
things  stand,  we  must  make  her  be 
decent  or  let  somebody  else  do  it." 

Another  brings  up  the  question  of 
taxing  incomes  and  inheritances. 

"I  favor  them  both,"  declared  the 
President.  "They  are  taxes  on  good 
luck ;  bad  luck  is  its  own  tax." 

A  statesman  from  the  Pacific  slope 
protests  against  Federal  interference 
in  the  school  question. 

"It  is  a  local  matter  as  you  say, 
Senator,  and  yours  is  a  'Sovereign 
State' — they  all  are  till  they  get  into 
trouble.  If  we  should  have  war  with 
Japan,  your  State  would  speedily  be- 
come an  integral  part  of  the  Union." 

A  group  of  gentlemen  now  object 
to  an  aspirant  for  a  Federal  judgeship 

[27] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

on  the  ground  that  he  has  not  a  "ju- 
dicial temperament." 

"As  I  understand  it,"  the  Presi- 
dent begins,  "judicial  temperament 
is  largely  a  fragrance  rising  from  the 
recollection  of  corporate  employment ; 
it  is  the  ability  to  throw  a  comma  un- 
der the  wheels  of  progress  and  upset 
public  welfare;  I  am  glad  to  learn 

that  Mr.  L has  not  a  *  judicial 

temperament' ;  I  shall  send  his  name 
to  the  Senate  to-day." 

The  gentlemen  retired.  "Come, 
Mr.  Dale,  let  us  go." 

This  President  had  been  accused 
of  a  lack  of  dignity.  Is  it  a  less  valu- 
able trait  which  puts  the  John  Dales 
of  our  land  at  instant  ease  in  the 
"State  Dining-Room"  of  the  White 
House  ? 

"Well,   sir,   no  man   ever  had   a 

[28] 


LONESOME  HILL 

better  friend  than  Judge  Long,"  said 
the  President  when  they  were  seated. 
"'Ves'  Long,  I  mean,"  he  added 
with  a  smile. 

"I  met  him  in  the  West;  he  had  a 
ranch;  mine  was  near  it.  We  saw 
much  of  each  other;  we  hunted  to- 
gether— and  that's  where  you  learn 
a  man's  mettle.  He  never  com- 
plained of  dogs,  luck,  or  weather. 
We  saw  rough  times;  it  was  glorious. 
We'd  wake  up  with  snow  on  the  bed, 
and  wrhen  *Ves'  introduced  me  at 
Point  Elizabeth  in  my  first  campaign 
he  said  we  often  found  rabbit  tracks 
on  the  quilts — but  then  *Ves'  had  a 
remarkable  eye. 

"Some  say,  'blood  is  thicker  than 
water.'  That  depends  somewhat  on 
the  quality  of  the  water;  I  like  him; 
there's  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  for  him !" 

[29] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

Dale  grew  suddenly  sick  at  heart. 
If  Long  had  only  come!  Recalling 
his  discouraging  words,  a  shadow 
crept  over  the  old  man's  mind. 
Could  it  be  possible  he  had  not  tried 
the  month  before  ? 

Such  misgivings  soon  vanished. 
"This  is  a  trying  office,  Mr.  Dale. 
With  all  my  feelings  I  had  to  hold  in 
abeyance  the  only  favor  he  ever 
asked;  it  was  about  a  pardon  in  a 
murder  case  over  thirty-five  years 
ago.  He  said  it  was  the  most  cruel 
case  of  circumstantial  evidence  in 
the  books — possibly  you  may  know 
about  the  case." 

The  old  man  struggled  back  in 
his  chair,  then  arose,  his  rough  hand 
brushing  thin  locks  back  from  a  tem- 
ple where  the  veins  seemed  swelling 
to  the  danger  point.  He  was  unable 

[30J 


LONESOME  HILL 

to    summon    more   than    a    whisper 
from  his  shrunken  throat. 

"Yes,  Mr.  President,  I  do— he's 
my  boy!" 

"Your  — boy!  Yes  — that's  the 
name — how  stupid  of  me — I  beg 
your  pardon,  Mr.  Dale — a  thousand 
times." 

They  stared  a  long  while  at  each 
other  and  Dale  felt  the  fears  which 
had  fled  before  his  gracious  reception 
returning  to  grip  him  by  the  heart; 
the  speech  he  had  prepared  had  fled ; 
it  had  all  happened  so  differently. 

At  last  the  President  spoke:  "Con- 
gress is  just  going  out;  it's  the  busy 
season,  but  I'll  go  through  the  papers 
to-night  myself." 

Dale  walked  to  the  window;  per- 
spiration was  on  his  face,  but  he  was 
very  cold.  He  stood  with  locked 

[31] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

brain,  and  into  his  eyes  came  filmy 
clouds;  then  through  these  he  saw, 
with  sudden  strangeness,  a  cabin  far 
away,  and  a  woman  with  pallid 
cheeks  looked  straight  at  him. 

The  President  gazed  intently  as 
the  old  man  wiped  the  window  pane, 
nodded  his  head,  and  turned  to  face 
the  table. 

He  cleared  his  throat,  then  opened 
a  flannel  collar,  already  loose,  and 
his  eyes  glistened. 

"  You're  sick  !  "  exclaimed  the 
President  rising.  "  Waiter — some 
brandy!" 

"  No — just  a  little  dizzy. 

"Mr.  President,"  he  slowly  began, 
"this  is  a  case  that  all  the  papers  in 
the  world  can't  tell — nor  all  the  men 
— there's  none  just  like  it. 

"It's  not  for  the  boy — it's  not  for 

[32] 


LONESOME  HILL 

me.  I  took  her  from  her  folks  against 
their  will,  and  I've  not  panned  out 
lucky — but  that's  not  to  the  point. 
She's  sick;  the  doctor  can't  help  her 
— nobody  can  but  you — I  wish  you 
might  have  seen  her  from  the  window 
yonder." 

The  half-finished  luncheon  was 
disregarded;  the  President  had  sunk 
into  his  chair,  and  the  keen  discrimi- 
nation of  a  king  of  affairs  was 
struggling  with  a  strange  fascina- 
tion. 

"Long  ago,  Mr.  President,  I  had 
an  enemy — Bill  Hartsell — we  shot 
each  other."  He  held  up  a  withered 
hand.  "It's  been  a  feud  ever  since. 
His  boy  and  mine  went  to  war  in  the 
same  company — both  as  brave  as  ever 
wore  the  blue.  When  they  were  wait- 
in'  to  be  mustered  out  Bill's  boy  was 

[33] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

murdered  in  his  tent — in  his  sleep. 
Bill  was  there  and  swore  he  saw  my 
Richard  do  it. 

"One  night,  a  month  ago,  my 
woman — she's  a  great  woman,  Mr. 
President — the  sick  folks  down  in  my 
country  call  her  '  The  Angel  of  Lone- 
some Hill' — well,  she  had  a  dream 
that  Bill  Hartsell  wanted  to  see  me. 
I  hadn't  laid  eyes  on  him  for  years. 
I  strapped  on  my  six-shooter  and  she 
said,  'No — it  isn't  that  kind  of  a  trip 
— it's  peace.' 

"I  put  down  the  shootin'  iron 
and  went — it  was  a  long  way — two 
days  on  horseback.  I  got  to  Bill's 
cabin  at  night;  I  went  in  without 
a  knock;  I  wasn't  afraid.  Bill's 
folks  were  round  the  bed.  He 
arose  and  cried  out:  'John,  I  sent 
for  you;  it  was  a  damn  lie  I  told — 

[34] 


LONESOME  HILL 

your   boy   didn't  do    it* — and  then 
Bill  died." 

For  the  moment  the  old  man's  agi- 
tation mastered  him. 

"I  remember,  Mr.  Dale.  *Ves' 
told  me;  he  brought  the  statements 
of  the  family — and  yours.  I've  been 
thinking  of  it  ever  since — and  a  great 
deal  these  last  two  days.  Tell  me, 
why  did  you  happen  to  come?" 

"Mother  had  a  dream  that  said  the 
time  was  up." 

Dale  spoke  as  calmly  as  though  de- 
livering a  message  from  a  neighbor. 

Fear  was  not  even  a  memory  now. 
He  stood  erect;  the  stone  he  had 
slowly  pushed  up  many  steep  years 
was  near  the  summit — one  mighty 
effort  might  hurl  it  down  the  past 
forever. 

"  Just  a  word  about  that  boy,  Mr. 

[35] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

President.  At  Cold  Harbor  his  regi- 
ment stood  in  hell  all  day ;  he  was  one 
of  those  who  pinned  his  name  to  his 
coat  so  his  body  could  be  identified — 
after  the  charge.  Well,  in  that  charge 
the  flag  went  down,  and  a  man  went 
out  to  get  it — and  he  fell ;  then  another 
— and  he  fell;  and  then  a  thin,  pale 
fellow  that  the  doctors  almost  refused 
sprang  forward  like  a  panther — and 
he  fell.  They  were  askin'  for  a  vol- 
unteer when  a  staff  officer  called  out: 
'Good  God!  He's  alive!  He's  got 
it!  He's  crawlin'  back!' 

"  They  had  to  lift  him  off  the  colors; 
he  didn't  know  anything,  .  .  .  and 
that  was  my  boy,  Mr.  President — 
that  was  Dick! 

"Funny  how  he  enlisted,"  Dale  re- 
sumed after  a  moment.  "He'd  been 
tryin'  to  get  in,  but  I  kept  him  out. 

[36] 


LONESOME  HILL 

One  night  his  mother  sent  him  for  a 
dime's  worth  of  clothes-line — and  he 
never  came  back.  He's  not  bad,  Mr. 
President;  he's  good — he  gets  it  from 
his  mother." 

Dale  lifted  his  head  with  pride: 
"When  I  was  on  the  jury  I  heard 
Judge  Long  say  no  one  could  be  pun- 
ished if  their  name  wasn't  written  in 
the  indictment.  Now,  they  didn't 
only  convict  Dick — they  convicted 
his  mother — this  whole  world's  her 
prison — and  it's  illegal,  Mr.  President 
— her  name  wasn't  written  in  that  in- 
dictment— and  it's  her  pardon  I 
want." 

The  President  arose  and  walked  the 
floor.  "How  could  the  man  who 
saved  those  colors  shoot  a  comrade  in 
his  sleep  ?  Mr.  Dale,  my  faith  in  hu- 
man nature  tells  me  that's  a  lie!" 

[37] 


THE  ANGEL  OF 

He  stood  for  an  instant  at  the  win- 
dow, looking  over  the  fountain,  the 
river,  the  tall  white  Washington 
needle  which  pierced  the  sky,  then 
quickly  stepped  to  the  table  and 
lifted  a  glass: 

"Mr.  Dale,  I  propose  a  toast — 'The 
Angel  of  Lonesome  Hill '  .  .  .  her 
liberty!" 

As  they  returned  to  the  office  there 
was  nothing  extraordinary  in  the 
President's  vigorous  step — that  was 
known  the  world  around.  There 
was  something  most  unusual,  how- 
ever, in  the  radiant  soul — the  splendid 
ancient  youth  of  the  quaint  figure  by 
his  side. 

At  the  door  where  the  policeman 
had  watched  the  waiting  pilgrim  the 
President  shook  the  old  man's  hand. 

[38] 


LONESOME  HILL 

"Come  again,  Mr.  Dale,  and  tell 
4Ves'  Long  I'll  go  hunting  with  him 
this  fall  and  bring  along  a  man  he'll 
like — a  man  who  catches  wolves  with 
his  hands." 

John  Dale  knew  every  fence  corner 
in  that  region,  but  the  night  was  so 
dark  he  stopped  at  times  to  "feel 
where  he  was." 

The  man  with  him  could  not  aid 
him;  he  was  a  stranger — a  strange 
stranger  who  spoke  but  once — "How 
far  is  it?" 

Long  habit  had  made  him  silent; 
he  was  in  the  upper  fifties,  but  long 
absence  from  the  sun  had  pinched  his 
face  into  the  white  mask  of  great 
age. 

At  the  village  store  the  stranger 
entered,  returning  with  a  package. 

[39] 


THE  ANGEL  OF  LONESOME  HILL 

When  the  road  turned  there  was  a 
light  high  ahead  and  a  moment  later 
the  two  men  entered  the  cabin. 

The  stranger  paused.  "Mother, 
you  sent  me  for  a  clothes-line — I've 
been  delayed — but  here  it  is." 

Her  hand  trembled  as  she  raised 
the  lamp  from  the  table. 

"My  boy — my  dream — the  Presi- 
dent!" 

When  she  lifted  her  face  it  was 
glorified. 


[40] 


REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A    000026731     o 


